Page 4 of Single Mom's Bodyguards
“You dance with me—just one—and I’ll walk away. No more scenes. No passive-aggressive drop-offs. No whispered commentary at school pickups.”
“You expect me to believe that?”
He spreads his hands. “It’s just a dance. In front of all these people. I don’t think I’m asking for too much, do you?”
I glance around. There are eyes on us. People pretending not to listen. Industry folks sipping cocktails while keeping half an ear turned our way. But we’re not causing a scene—yet. And that’s the only reason I’m still standing here, face neutral, spine steel.
I could say no. Ishouldsay no.
But if I don’t give him this small thing, he’ll find a way to punish me. I know it. He always has.
One dance. One chance to keep him from blowing this whole night apart. And he can’t hurt me out here. Not in front of everyone. Not where cameras and whispers will carry any bruise further than he ever intended.
“Fine,” I say tightly. “One dance. Then you leave me alone.”
“Deal.” He offers his hand, the imitation of a gentleman. His hand is warm. David’s always been warm on the outside. That’s how he hides what’s underneath.
He leads me gently toward the dance floor, the way a man would lead his date, his wife, his partner of years. The way he used to.
It makes my stomach turn.
The music has shifted to something slow and smoky, the kind of song where couples press close and forget the room around them. I keep a careful inch of space between us.
He closes the gap.
If I pull away now, it’ll be obvious. Awkward. The kind of thing that fuels gossip. I grit my teeth and put up with the closeness.
One hand finds my waist. The other holds mine loosely, as if this is all casual. Innocent. As if we’re not two halves of a broken thing pretending the break isn’t jagged.
We begin to move. Slow. Swaying. And I’m dancing with the man who used to ignore my safeword like it was merely a suggestion.
“You’ve gotten good at this,” he murmurs, guiding us across the floor with practiced ease. “The whole…starlet thing. You’re very polished now.”
“I was always polished. You just didn’t like when I outshined you.”
He chuckles, low in his throat. “Still got that bite, huh?”
“I had to. You kept trying to file my teeth down.”
“You know,” he says lightly, “when I heard about the name change…I thought it was a mistake. You wouldn’t provoke me. You’re smarter than that.”
And there it is. I should’ve known he wouldn’t wait long. “It wasn’t a mistake.”
He gives me a long, quiet look. “Maeve and Eli. Oswalt is their name.”
“Beausoleil is mine. The one I never gave up, by the way.” I keep my voice calm, even. “It’s easier this way. Paperwork. School. Insurance. And I’m the one on every emergency contact list, in case you forgot.”
“I didn’t forget.” His grip tightens a fraction. Just enough that I feel it. “I just think it’s a little…dishonest. Don’t you?”
I blink slowly, forcing my body to stay relaxed. “What exactly do you think I’m lying about, David?”
He leans in. “That you’re the only parent who matters.”
My jaw tightens. “That wasn’t the message. But while we’re on the subject? I carried them for nine months each. Had my organs rearranged, nipples cracked, and a C-section scar that stops mefrom getting certain roles. If anyone’s name deserves to be on them—it’s mine.”
That smile again. That patronizing tilt of his mouth. “There it is. The martyr act.”
“I’m a mom, not a martyr. It’s prehistoric for children to automatically get their father’s name. Modernize, David.”
